


eat the rude (but don't tell martha)

by doritoFace1q



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Blood and Gore, But it's funny, Cannibalism, Dr Nyarlathotep, Gen, Humor, Implied Relationships, In a way, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Companions (Doctor Who) are Tired, The Doctor (Doctor Who) is an Idiot, Time Lord Culture (Doctor Who), What Have I Done, is it crack if i sort of take it seriously, it's not cannibalism if he's not human, says eating people is okay, the doctor is not a vegan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 11:01:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25469692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doritoFace1q/pseuds/doritoFace1q
Summary: Time Lords are apex predators.Or,remember that time when Nine told Rose to put Jackie on a slow heat and let her simmer?
Relationships: Ninth Doctor/Rose Tyler, Tenth Doctor & Donna Noble, Tenth Doctor & Martha Jones, Tenth Doctor/Jack Harkness, Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler, Tenth Doctor/The Master (Simm), Twelfth Doctor/Missy
Comments: 41
Kudos: 167





	eat the rude (but don't tell martha)

**Author's Note:**

> A clusterfuck that arose from the Masterversary Discord after I found out that David Tennant auditioned for Hannibal. Time Lords are weird, man.

Aliens. Farting aliens. Farting aliens in London. Farting aliens in London that had almost destroyed the world. Maybe it said something that Rose hadn’t even found anything amiss about that.

She said as much, at dinner, and Mickey rolled his eyes. “For god’s sake,” her mother said. “What kind of stuff do you do regular, then?”

At this, Mickey launched into a tirade about plastic men and carnivorous trash cans, and Rose grinned into her glass. Best not to tell them about talking trees or evil trampolines, then.

“Where is he, anyway?” Jackie asked, cutting Mickey off mid-sentence. “You said he’d be coming, didn’t you?”

“He will,” said Rose, taking a bite of chicken.

“He said he didn’t do domestic,” Mickey cut in, looking far too pleased with himself for a man who’d been covered in green slime not five hours ago.

And then, as if on cue, there was a buzz and the door flew open. “Rose?” the Doctor called, sauntering in. Rose shot Mickey a triumphant look and Jackie muttered something under her breath about locks and flyswatters. “Let’s make this quick, then,” said the Doctor, pulling out the seat next to Rose and sitting down. “Got lots to do after this—there’s a party on Venus you’ll like, I’ve been three times already. And then we can pop off afterwards for drinks and dancing in Alpha Centuar—Jackie?”

Rose glanced between the Doctor and her mother. The Doctor stared at her, bewilderment written across his face. He looked down at his plate, then up at her, then down and up again. “I thought you said she was cooking,” he said, turning to stare almost accusingly at Rose.

“I did,” said Jackie, crossing her arms. “Problem?”

The Doctor looked down at his plate and up again. For someone who claimed to be a genius, it was taking him a surprising amount of time to understand what “cooking” meant. “Oh!” he exclaimed suddenly, and Mickey jumped, fork clattering out of his hand. “You meant—  _ Oh _ , I see.”

“What did you think she meant?” Jackie screeched. Mickey’s face was slowly turning green as he glanced from his plate to the Doctor, and Rose hastily took a gulp of water. Some things, she decided, were best left unspoken.

*

Rose had gotten used to the hum of the TARDIS’s engines in the two years she’d been with the Doctor. The first time she’d stepped onto the ship, the grating wheeze had been disconcerting, frightening, almost. Now, she was more used to hearing them than not. They were pleasant background noise, a comfort in the dead of night that lulled her to sleep like a lullaby, a sign that all was right in the world. The Doctor and Rose Tyler in the TARDIS, as they should be.

As it should be until the engines screeched to a halt and the ship stopped with a jolt, sending Rose flying out of bed.

She tumbled to the ground with a yelp, elbow rubbing painfully against the carpet. The TARDIS let out a low wheeze of apology and she patted the wall as she sat up, grimacing.

“Is it him?” she asked. “Is he alright?” The TARDIS groaned and she stood with a frown, grabbing a jumper she’d tossed over the dresser.

“Doctor?” she called, slipping on a pair of slippers and poking her head out of the door. “Doctor, you alright?” She pulled on the jumper and walked out, jogging down the hallway. “Doctor!”

The console room was empty, but his long brown coat was still tossed over one of the coral struts. That boded well. Rose pushed open the doors and started.

The TARDIS had parked itself in the dead-end back alley they’d left only earlier that day, the one the Abzorbaloff had met his end in. And, judging by the sky, the Doctor had parked them only a few hours after they’d left.

Speaking of the Doctor. . .

Rose stared. Blinked. Rubbed her eyes and looked again.

The Doctor was lying on the ground on his stomach, chipping at the ground with a spoon. The tip of his tongue poked out between his lips and his eyes were only inches away from the pavement, squinted in concentration.

_ Crack! _ A chunk of concrete popped out of the paving and Rose watched in horror as the Doctor, with a look of unadulterated delight on his face, picked it up and popped it into his mouth.

“Doctor?” Rose squeaked.

The Doctor jumped as if shocked and looked up. “Rose!” His face brightened. “What’re you doing up?”

“The TARDIS woke me,” said Rose. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, well—” The Doctor leapt to his feet in one swift, fluid motion, in the way that always made her wonder whether he had the same amount of bones as a human. “Couldn’t stop thinking about this,” he said, nudging the ground with a Converse-clad toe. “The Abzorbaloff. Well, the people the Abzorbaloff absorbed, rather. They sunk into the ground, you know? Still here, somewhere.”

“Right.” Rose stared as the Doctor returned to his gleeful assault on the pavement. “And you’re. . .”

The Doctor scraped up a spoonful of dust and shoved it eagerly into his mouth.

Rose shut the doors and went back to her room.

*

The first time Jack noticed, they’d been crammed into a jail cell that wouldn’t have fit a Vinvocci.

“Left pocket,” the Doctor had said as Jack fumbled in his suit jacket, his legs curled against the wall and the back of his neck pressed to the ceiling. “Nope, other pocket. Yeah, that one.”

Jack had grunted, spine twisted in a way that was used as a form of torture on seven different planets. “Aw, come on, Doc,” he’d said, shooting him a grin (or an attempt, at least—half his face was crushed against the wall). “Small space, just the two of us. . .”

“Stop it,” the Doctor had said, and Jack could only assume that he’d scowled. “And this is not a ‘small space’—I’ve been in coffins with more leg room.” He’d shifted, and Jack had winced, another inch of his arm vanishing into the Doctor’s bigger-on-the-inside pocket.

His fingers brushed metal and he let out a breath of relief, and then a sneeze as the Doctor’s hair tickled his nose. “Got it!” he crowed, pulling out. . . a flask.

They stared at it for a moment, Jack peering as best as he could from the corner of his eyes, and the Doctor looking, cross-eyed, down his nose. “That is not a sonic screwdriver,” the Doctor had finally said.

They’d gotten out eventually, of course, and the ensuing chase, followed by several large explosions, two subsequent deaths, and an almost-accidental revolution were enough to drive the little grey flask from Jack’s mind.

The second time Jack saw it, they were hanging upside-down over the edge of a cliff, arms dangling helplessly, ankles tangled in a vine.

The Doctor craned his neck, looking at the tops of the trees wavering far, far below. “Think I’d regenerate if we fell?” he asked.

Jack twisted his own neck as much as he could, trying to get a look. “Maybe,” he said doubtfully. They looked ridiculous, he knew—two grown men dangling off a ledge, swinging in the breeze like an elaborate yoyo, the tails of their coats flapping like pennants in the wind.

Jack shifted, then grimaced as dirt rained down on them from above. “Careful,” the Doctor warned.

Jack wrinkled his nose, blinking dust from his eyes. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a rope?” he asked. “Or a grappling hook?”

“Maybe,” said the Doctor, reaching into his pocket. “Be a handy thing to carry around, rope. Seem to need it a lot. Mind you, I’ve got a bad habit of never having what I need when I need it—oh, bugger.”

Something very small and very bright whipped past Jack’s face, spiraling down to earth (or Horlaf, in this case). Jack winced, squeezing his eyes shut as it caught the glare of the triplet suns, throwing flashes of light back up at them.

“Damn,” said the Doctor as Jack blinked black spots out of his vision, staring morosely after it. “Sonic,” he said. “Don’t suppose I’m going to see that one again anytime soo—woah!”

Jack’s teeth clacked together,  _ hard _ , as the vine suddenly jerked and they were showered with another flood of blue dirt. The Doctor coughed, shaking his head, and the psychic paper slipped out of his pocket, flapping as it fluttered away, followed by a lollipop, some paperclips, another lollipop, a credit stick, a button, and—

The Doctor yelped as the flask bounced against his forehead before falling away, and more dirt fell on them. “Aw, fuck,” said Jack, then grabbed the Doctor, wrapping him up tightly in his arms. The vine gave and they plummeted to the ground.

The third time, Jack asked.

“Come on,” he said when the Doctor hesitated. “It’s been a long day. I won’t tell if you don’t,” he added with a grin.

The Doctor rolled his eyes, but his lips were twitching too when he reached into his jacket. “It’s not alcohol, per se,” he said. “But—” Jack snatched the flask away before he could finish. “Okay. Um, Jack, before you drink that, you should know—”

Jack unscrewed the lid and reeled as he was hit in the face by an acrid metallic smell he knew all too well. Slowly, cautiously, he turned the flask upside down. Blood poured out of it and splashed over the toes of his shoes.

He looked up at the Doctor incredulously.

“I can explain,” he said.

He did not.

*

Martha opened the fridge, and slammed it back shut just as quick. “Oh, my—” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.  _ In for three, out for six. In for three, out for six _ .

She opened her eyes and opened the fridge again.

There, sitting between a jar of jam the size of her head and a jug of starfruit juice made of actual stars for the seventy-eight century, was a human leg, severed at the knee and wrapped up neatly in cellophane.

Martha stared blankly at it for a moment (it had been plucked, she noted with a calmness that was near-hysterical, of any and all hair, and the toenails had all been removed with surgical precision), then shut the door again. When she opened it again, an arm, cleaned and fingers removed, had taken its place, and the jam had been replaced by a bucket-sized tub of Nutella. Shut, open. Ribcage in a bowl. Shut, open. Cocktail with an eyeball speared on the umbrella. Shut, open. Tupperware of fingers.

Martha slammed the door shut. “Doctor!” she yelled.

There was a loud crash from outside, followed by a yelp that echoed through the endless hallways and a wheeze from the TARDIS. Martha stayed shock-still, knuckles white on the door handle of the fridge, as she listened to the clatter that drew ever closer.

“Martha?” The door slammed against the wall and the Doctor rushed in, eyebrows still smoking lightly. “What is it?”

“Doctor,” said Martha with more patience than she was feeling. “There are fingers in the fridge. And a leg, and an arm, and an eye, and—” She opened the door again, “and a head,  _ bloody hell! _ ” She threw the door shut and reeled away as if burnt.

“Oh!” The Doctor perked up. “Yes, my fault completely. I’ve been trying to fix the dimensional stabilizers—we keep veering off towards the Celestial Toymaker, that’s never good. Must have hit the intermensional adjuster by accident.” He fished around in his suit for a moment, then pulled out his sonic screwdriver. “There!” He pointed it at the fridge, and the familiar buzz filled the room. There was a loud pop, like a cable being severed, and a shower of sparks exploded from somewhere behind it, followed by a low, rolling cloud of black smoke. “That should fix it!”

“Not the fridge, Doctor,” said Martha. She was beginning to feel light-headed. “The  _ human body parts _ ?” At least, she hoped they were human. She didn’t know whether them being alien would make it better or worse.

“Ah!” A grin that was almost vindictive spread across the Doctor’s face. “That’ll be Van Statten. Met him in Utah in 2012. Well, 2005. Well, 3021414006, technically. Got a cry for help, and the rest is history! Or the future. Can never get those two straight.”

And then he was gone, the door slamming behind him. Martha stared after him, slack-jawed, for a moment, then turned back to the fridge. She reached for the handle with no small amount of trepidation and, with the care of one poking a sleeping tiger, opened the fridge door.

A sandwich sat innocently on a plate, along with a handful of chips. She reached forwards and tentatively peeled the bread back.

Ham. She hoped.

She slammed the door shut again.

*

The Doctor, Donna was convinced, had been cursed. Maybe he’d gone digging in a pyramid and licked something with a “Do Not Touch” sign on it, or maybe he’d pissed off some ancient god. He seemed the type. Because it was the only explanation for how trouble always seemed to follow him.

Donna didn’t particularly care what he’d done to make the New Italian mob so mad at him. What she did care about was that they were ruining her shopping day.

“Oi!” she yelled as two men (one of whom suspiciously resembled a cat, but she hardly had time to dwell on that) grabbed her from behind. “Hands off, cat boy!” She stomped on the left one’s foot, and was rewarded with a satisfying crunch and howl of pain. “Bug off!” she yelled, hitting the other one in the face with a new handbag.

The Doctor, meanwhile, was struggling. The towering wall of muscle she could only assume was their leader had an arm around his throat, and was, despite his flailing limbs, holding him effortlessly above the ground. And he wondered why Donna never believed her about “superior Time Lord strength.”

The Doctor was slowly turning. . . well, orange, but Donna didn’t have time to dwell on that, either. “I’m telling you!” he choked out. “I haven’t been to Alpha Centauri in ages! And my hair’s not red! Let me tell you, though, I wish it were. Wouldn’t I look great ginger? Speaking of Alpha Centauri, Jack told me about this party—” He let out a wheeze as the mobster tightened his grip, and he scratched frantically at his arm.

“Hey, you!” Donna yelled, raising the handbag. “Get your hands off—”

The Doctor bit down on his captor’s arm. Both Donna and the man stared at him for a second with something that was almost amazement. And then, as if it had taken him a second to catch up (and Donna didn’t blame him), the man screamed and dropped the Doctor.

The Doctor, however, did not let go. Blood was pouring down his arm, now, and the Doctor’s chin, but he kept his teeth clamped firmly down on his flesh like a vice. The man let out a high-pitched scream, flapping his arm as if trying to shake off a bug. The Doctor made a noise that Donna refused to think of as a growl, and tugged.

There was a wet, tearing noise, and the man wailed in agony, then turned and ran. The Doctor straightened his suit, and Donna really hoped he wasn’t doing what she thought he was doing, because it really looked like he was chewing.

“Doctor?” she asked warily.

The Doctor licked his lips. “Needs more salt,” he commented. And, before Donna could say anything else, he was gone, with only a “Come on!” tossed over his shoulder.

Donna decided not to dwell on it.

*

“You died!” The Doctor stared at the Master (the  _ resurrected _ Master—didn’t anyone remember what had happened the last time?) from across the rubble of the construction site. “You died, I watched you die!” He was dying, he could feel it—like watching water pour through a sieve and trying to catch it in a net. It was electrifying, the Master’s life force—quite literally, he realized, as the Master’s body was lit up in a flash of lightning.

One problem at a time, the Doctor thought. “You ate the humans!” he yelled. “Humans, and you ate them! They weren’t even doing anything!” He drew in a deep breath. “You ate the humans, and you  _ didn’t even save me any? _ ”

“I don’t need to do anything for you!” the Master yelled.

“I THOUGHT YOU LOVED ME!”

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE VEGETARIAN!”

*

He would have hummed as he strolled down to the Vault, if he weren’t against humming. He would have skipped, but he was against that, too.

_ Rassilon _ , it felt good to be in the TARDIS again. Sure, he knew he wasn’t supposed to, but,  _ technically _ , he’d only vowed not to go off-world. The time with the puddle didn’t count. The past was still on Earth.

The door swung shut behind him and he headed down the stairs.  _ Thump thump thump _ went the bag he dragged behind him as it bounced against each step.

“Oh, quiet,” he snapped at it. The bag did not respond. Oh, well. She always did like her meat tender.

The door was just as solid and untouched as he’d left it (he thought. He couldn’t actually tell whether people had touched the door or not, but assumption was every idiot’s best friend).

“Hello?” he rapped the door. No reply. “I used the TARDIS today,” he said. “You probably felt that.” Nothing. “Went back in time,” he said. “Victorian times, again. Did I ever tell you about that time with her and the werewolf?” Silence. “I brought a racist,” he said. “Been a long time since we’ve had anything slow-cooked, hasn’t it?”

_ Pop Goes the Weasel _ began playing from within in earnest. He grinned and opened the door.

**Author's Note:**

> amber and romana share the blame
> 
> tumblr: [@doritoFace1q](http://doritoface1q.tumblr.com/)  
> 


End file.
